


Of Love & Sandwiches

by jkateel



Series: Why We Fight (Why We Die) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkateel/pseuds/jkateel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and ficlets of my Garrett Hawke, and his merry band of misfits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Literary Criticism

**Author's Note:**

> The first few stories are ones I've already posted. I'm just posting them together now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett has some issues with his characterization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Act 1.

_"A scout," Bethany said, the beautiful warrior rising gracefully from the ground. "We will have to face them sooner or later."_

_The eldest Hawke had no fear, looking into distance where the horde marched. “We’ll get through this,” he declared. “_ Together _.”_

Garrett lowered the paper at that, lifting one disbelieving eyebrow as he turned to Varric. “I seem … somewhat  _bland.”_

Varric had a Diamondback face that rivaled his father’s sometimes. “You’re a hero. You’re relatable,” he shot back. 

Garrett narrowed his eyes. He had never found heroes relatable — certainly not as _bland_ either. ”I thought I was the funny one.”

Varric returned to his writing, quill scratching fiercely against the paper. “It’s too early in the story to introduce your particular brand of humor to the audience, Hawke.”

It was a good thing he liked Varric, otherwise Garrett wouldn’t have resisted the urge to throw his papers into the fire. He also didn’t believe him for a moment — Varric was always laughing at his jokes — but why he insisted on making this _Hawke_ some paragon of righteous, who even knew.

There were other ways to make his point though. Garrett glanced over at Varric scribbling away, and then over at the extra ink and quill the dwarf had on his shelves. 

Garrett smirked. He’d show the dwarf humor.

* * *

After Hawke left, Varric picked up the page he had been reading to put it back in the pile. He noticed parts of it had been scratched out but, before he flew into a rage (no one touched his work — no one), he read what Hawke had written.

_"A scout," Bethany said, the beautiful warrior rising gracefully from the ground. "We will have to face them sooner or later."_

_The eldest Hawke had no fear, looking out into the distance at the approaching horde. “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” he grinned, “and they’ll run out of darkspawn.”_

Varric barked out a laugh. And then hissed a curse. “Well-played, Hawke, well-played,” he grumbled, and set the paper back in its proper place.


	2. Sandwiches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Here you go,” Hawke said, as he handed over a plate to Anders. “The Hawke signature dish. As they say in Orlais: _Bon appétit_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Act 1.

“Here you go,” Hawke said, as he handed over a plate to Anders. “The Hawke signature dish. As they say in Orlais: _Bon appétit_.”

Anders lifted an eyebrow even as he smiled. “The Hawke signature dish is a sandwich?”  
  
“Oh yes,” Hawke grinned, feeding bits of his own meal to his mabari. He leaned against the wall next to Anders, nodding toward his plate. “That’s the poor man’s version, by the way. Meat, cheese, two-day-old bread. A classic though.”  
  
“Are we calling this one the ‘poor man’s sandwich?’” Bethany chimed in from the doorway of their uncle’s hovel, half-eaten sandwich in hand. She was grinning, a sight Anders rarely saw, but food always had a way of bringing those out. “I think we should call this one the ‘nobleman’s-sandwich-that-the-poor-man-stole.’”  
  
Anders felt a bemused smile coming on. “You name your sandwiches?” he asked around a bite of his food. The way the question made Hawke’s eyes light up and lean in with a sly grin sent a flutter through his chest.  
  
“For royalty’s sake, you must,” he said with a wink, and then looked back at Bethany. “Let’s call it what it is, Beth: the ‘I didn’t know the abandoned thaig would lead straight into that lord’s cellar’ sandwich.”  
  
Bethany’s grin grew, matching her brother’s. “’That we then robbed of all the dried meat we could carry’ sandwich?”  
  
“The 'It’s only stealing if you get caught’ sandwich,” Hawke shot back. Bethany rolled her eyes, but Hawke wasn’t done. “The ‘no, Aveline, we never saw this meat before in our lives’ sandwich.”

Bethany laughed, throwing a piece of said meat at him. Anders felt an odd pang in his chest, watching as the two bounced a couple more names off each other.

Most of the banter he had ever been part of had been fun, but tinged with cruelty. This was different—this was family bantering, and he had never seen it before.

He wasn’t sure if that was why he joined in, or if he was just swept up in the playfulness of it all. “Shouldn’t it be the ‘Anders, we were supposed to be looking for deep mushrooms in the sewers, how did we end up in an abandoned thaig’ sandwich, in that case?” he joked, pleased when Hawke snorted in laughter around a bite of his food.  
  
Bethany giggled again, waving her hand. “Oh, no, it’s getting too long now. We’ll never remember the name.” She bounced on her toes, looking at her brother. “We need a simple name.”  
  
“The poor-man’s sandwich,” Hawke muttered around a mouthful. Anders’ nose wrinkled, half-amused, half-disgusted; Bethany threw a piece of bread at him this time, which the mabari quickly gobbled up. Hawke swallowed, and then smirked as he glanced at Anders. “Fine,” he said, and then winked. “We’ll call it the ‘Anders’ sandwich.”  
  
Anders felt his heart skip a beat, shock leaving him breathless. Bethany made a noise around her closed, full mouth, nodding in agreement. Hawke grinned again, and then slapped a hand to Anders’ shoulder. “Apologies, my good man,” he teased. “You have the pleasure of eating the Hawke signature ‘Anders’ sandwich. As they say in Orlais…”  
  
“ _Bon appétit_ ,” Anders whispered with a smile. The warmth in his chest was as welcome as his sandwich had been to his stomach, and he hoped it never went away, like Hawke’s grin.  
  
“That too,” Hawke chirruped with another wink. “But also, ‘who wants seconds?’”  
  
Anders couldn’t help but laugh.


	3. Manifesto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Garrett doesn’t think about what he says _at all_ , and that’s really going to get him in trouble one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime in Act 2.

"So, I read it," Garrett begins. Anders looks hopeful, sitting forward in his chair.

"And?" he asks. 

"And they’re good arguments," Garrett admits, tapping his fingers against the pile of paper that is the _manifesto._ He can’t help but think of it in such dramatic terms. “Persuasive arguments too.”

Anders frowns. “I’m sensing a ‘but’…”

Garrett winces. He was trying to think of a more delicate way of getting around to that _but_. Or, for him, a  _less sarcastic_ way. He isn’t good at either, and that’s probably why he blurts out, “Your spelling is atrocious.”

The way Anders’ face goes blank should be a clue not to say, “and I burned one of the worst pages in a fit of bloody pique.” But Garrett doesn’t think about what he says at all, and that’s really going to get him in trouble one day. Possibly today, when Justice emerges and turns him into a bloody paste against his expensive Orlesian furniture.

"Not without copying it first," he adds quickly as Anders’ face falls. He holds up the page in question, but Anders doesn’t seem to notice. He’s looking at his manifesto with an expression of the resigned.

"I suppose never paying attention in my lessons has come back to haunt me," he mutters. He sounds sad — and perhaps he knows as well as Garrett that no one important will read the manifesto, not with Anders’ bad handwriting and misspellings. And that’s only if they get past the part where it’s an apostate mage writing about mage rights. There’s a lot of hurdles.

It’s possible Garrett could have phrased it better too.

He winces again. Maker’s breath, he’s not good at this. But he told Anders once he would stand with him, even if he hadn’t known how at the time. This is a way, isn’t it? ”I can help you,” he offers tentatively. Anders looks up at him. “With your spelling, I mean.”

Anders begins to look hopeful again, and then nods. “I’d like that,” he murmurs, a faint lift to his lips that’s almost a smile.

"Good, good," Garrett mutters, shifting in embarrassment. He slaps his hands together then. "Right then. We need paper. Ink, too. And tea. And something to eat."

This time, Anders does smile. “I’d definitely like that.”


	4. Sleeping Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting a good night’s sleep in the Hawke household (or campsite) had always been a battle Garrett had lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 2, post Anders moving in.

Getting a good night’s sleep in the Hawke household (or campsite) had always been a battle Garrett had lost. For a long time he didn’t even have a real bed—only thin bedrolls, straw, cave floors, burlap sacks, floorboards, trees. To escape Ferelden’s cold nights, the family often had to sleep close for warmth, and those were epic battles all on their own.

The twins always wanted to sleep next to Mother — usually in the same spot, and they fought each other for that coveted place until Father had to separate them. Garrett just wanted to sleep as far away as he could from Caver, but no matter what, his brother always ended up next to him. There was no rest to be had after the family fell asleep either: Carver kicked, Bethany mumbled, Father snored, Mother twisted and turned. Garrett had to endure it though — it was usually too cold to sleep elsewhere— but he couldn’t count the nights he had lain awake, trying to avoid Carver’s kicks, or tune out Father’s snores.

Those were the nights he dreamt about the future, about a bed that would be his and his alone. Garrett imagined having a real mattress, real blankets, real pillows and, best of all, no one else to share it with. It would be his, his, his — and when the time came that he got that bed, it was his. He had spared no expense for his bed at the estate, setting it up with a whole assortment of pillows and blankets. He had greedily hoarded them too, ordering Dog off the bed at night and taking up as much space as he could whenever he slept. It had been glorious, and there were days he never wanted to leave his bed.

So it was strange when insomnia returned, but it took Garrett ages to realize the reason why. It took Anders moving in — and Dog’s jealousy that the mage got to have the bed, but he didn’t. They fought each other for who got to sleep next to Garrett — Garrett eventually getting them to compromise by sleeping in the middle of the bed. They both kicked, they both snored; Anders twisted and turned and mumbled like it was his job; Dog _farted_.

Surprisingly, Garrett had never slept better.

“What are you smiling about?” Anders grumpily asked him one night after he finished fighting with Dog on who got to sleep on the left side of Garrett for the night. (Dog won the argument, mostly by not budging from the left side.) It was clear Anders didn’t expect Garrett to lean over and kiss him, and he squinted at him when Garrett pulled him down to his side.

“Nothing,” Garrett reassured, patting Dog’s back and curling his arm about Anders’ shoulder. “Nothing.”


End file.
